There Was a Boy
by SFGrl
Summary: An unlikely romance blooms, as the City by the Bay falls... (C & M, AU)
1. One

_There Was a Boy_

_One_

1986

"Grandma?  Are you here?" Christina Porter walked into her grandmother's tiny bungalow, and shook out of her jacket, as she scanned the small entryway and living room slowly.

"In here, sweetheart."

Christina turned her head in the direction of her grandmother's shaky voice, then made her way through the cozy living room and into the small den.  She smiled slightly as she passed the wall of photographs that covered the wall that separated the two rooms.  Photos of cousins; of aunts and uncles.  Photos of her parents, when they were young; and photos from her childhood.  Then there were photos of people she never knew—of her great-grandparents, and of her grandmother's only brother.  She gingerly ran her finger over the photo of her great-uncle, straightening it so that it was _just so._

_Mom's right_, Christina thought to herself, _I'm just like her_.

Christina turned her attention to her grandmother, seated in a large, brown leather chair, a thin, hand made afghan covering her tiny legs.  She was turning the page of a large, well-worn photo album, her hands, worn with time and labor, trembling as she moved from one page to another.  She looked up when her granddaughter entered, and a smile lit her face, her blue eyes dancing with mirth.

"Christina, sweetheart, how are you?"

Christina leaned down to embrace her grandmother, careful not to squeeze her too tightly.

"I'm okay, Grandma.  Tired, I guess."

"Being a lawyer can be tiring, I imagine," her grandmother stated, and Christina laughed.

"You're right.  But I have the next few days off, and I intend on spending a good deal of it with you."

"Oh, honey, it won't take _that long to get my affairs in order.  I already have a will you know."_

"Well," Christina smiled," It's not the legal stuff that interests me.  You promised to tell me more about your life…about all of the mysterious people in these photo albums of yours."

"What are you talking about?  You and your sister have seen these albums a million times."

"Not this one!  I've never seen this big red book before!"

Christina watched as her grandmother looked down at the photo album, her already pallid skin paling slightly.  She ran her frail hand over the black parchment reverently, and let out a heavy sigh.

"Grandma?  What is it?" Christina sat down on the floor in front of her grandmother, her face knitted with concern.

"I…haven't looked at this book in a long time.  Not since your grandfather passed away."

"Is it…photos of Grandpa?"

"Not exactly."

Intrigued, Christina perched herself up on her knees, and peered into the book.

"Is that your father?"

"Yes, it is."

"He looks like a very kind man," Christina smiled, "you have his eyes."

"So do you, my love."

Christina smiled, and looked down, as her grandmother turned the page slowly.

"Who is that?"

"That…is the man I was supposed to marry.  He was very wealthy and well connected, but…"

"You didn't love him?"

"Exactly," Christina's grandmother smiled, and wiped a small tear from her eye slowly.

"So you left him for Grandpa?"

"No…I just…left."

"You left New York?"

"I left _for_ New York," her grandmother corrected.

"Where were you?  Where did you leave _from_?"

"I was younger than Sabrina, you know.  I was only seventeen years old then…"

"When?"

"When I left San Francisco."

"You were in _San Francisco_?  And you left?  When were you there?"

"My parents moved there during the gold rush.  And I left after…"

"What?"

"I left in 1906."

Christina's eyes widened with understanding.  

"You were in the Great Quake?"

"Yes, I was."

"What happened?  How did you survive?  Is that how Great Uncle Ross died?"

"I think…I should start at the beginning.

"Back then…San Francisco was one of the most vibrant, beautiful cities in the world.  It had a busy port, and it was still reeling from the Gold Rush.  It was a large city, and a small town, all at once.  It was a prosperous, stately city, and our family was one of the wealthiest in the city.  In spite of all of this…I was completely miserable."

1906 – February

Monica watched incredulously, as her mother and new fiancé discussed the best time of year to hold the wedding.  She swallowed down her soup sourly, and listened helplessly.

"April…it _rains_ here in April," Judy Geller shook her head, her dinner growing cold in front of her as she deliberated passionately.

"It won't rain in March," Ross interjected, and Judy's face lit up.  Monica shot her older brother a foul look.

"Yes!  Oh, but that's only _one month_.  We can not _possibly arrange all of this in _one_ month!"_

"What about July?" Richard Burke, Monica's fiancé, (and one of the most boring men she had ever met) piped in, then smiled broadly.

"July!  That's perfect! You can get married in the park!" Judy cooed, then looked at her husband, "Jack, what do you think?"

"What does Monica think?" Jack looked at his daughter, empathy lining his worn face.

Monica smiled at her father, and opened her mouth to speak, only to be silenced by her mother once again.

"Monica will be happy with any date we choose," Judy insisted, waving her hand at Monica dismissively.

Monica rolled her eyes, as Judy picked up her spoon, and sipped her soup.

"Ugh!  This is _cold!  I can't eat this!" Judy announced, throwing her spoon onto the table._

Monica closed her eyes, and sighed.  She would give anything…anything at all…to be anywhere but here.

Monica sat in the parlor several hours later, staring out at the darkened streets below.  She was still reeling from the events of the morning, her head throbbing at the very thought of marrying Richard Burke.  The man was so much older than her, and they had absolutely nothing in common.  She could see that he disapproved of her passion for books and travel, and his conservative thinking and constant cigar smoking repulsed her.  Sighing heavily, she ran her finger down the cold window slowly.

"Penny for your thoughts," Jack whispered from his spot in the parlor doorway.

Monica started slightly and turned, her eyes dark and moist with sorrow.

"Do I _have_ to marry him, daddy?"

"You know you do, Monica."

"I don't love him."

"But you will learn to!  Please Monica, don't act like this," Jack pleaded gently.

"I don't understand why I have to marry him—perhaps I don't want to get married at all!"

"Monica, don't be silly," Judy said crossly, as she joined Jack in the doorway, "any woman would be lucky to have someone as wonderful as Mr. Burke!  Now stop sulking and get your coat—your music lesson is in half an hour."

Monica rolled her eyes and stood slowly.  She despised her music lessons, and her etiquette classes, and all of the mind-numbing conversations and parties she was forced to participate in.  They only served to remind her that she was being trained to be a conservative, humorless, dull society woman, who bows to her husbands needs and talks of nothing but local gossip and the weather.

She was being trained to fill her mother's old-fashioned shoes.

What was wrong with seeing the world, getting an education, having a mind of her own?

Why did she have to marry someone so…old?

Her friend Rachel was constantly telling her that she was looking at it all wrong;

"You are so lucky Monica!  You won't die a lonely old woman!"

Rachel, who was now betrothed to Ross, felt that there was nothing wrong with their lives.  She was convinced that she had everything she needed.

But how would she know?  She'd never lived any other way.

The winter wind bit through his coat fiercely, as he made his way up the darkened street slowly.  He struggled to tighten his coat around him with his free hand, but to no avail.

He ducked into the open doorway quickly, his face tingling immediately as it met the sweet warmth of the small bakery.

"Good evening, Mr. Halloway!"

"Oh!  Good evening Chandler!  I was worried you were not coming tonight!"

"I wouldn't let this little storm keep me from your bread!" Chandler replied jovially.

Mr. Halloway smiled, as he handed the young man a long loaf of sourdough bread.

"How is your mother, son?"

Chandler's easy smile faltered and his sharp blue eyes shifted to the ground.

"I'm afraid she's not much better, sir," Chandler replied quietly.

"You give her my best won't you?  And that bread is on me tonight."

"Oh, no Mr. Halloway, I couldn't—"

"Nonsense, young man, I insist!  You should spend some of that hard-earned money on yourself!"

"Well…thank you, Mr. Halloway.  You are very kind."

Mr. Halloway smiled warmly, and nodded silently, as Chandler made his way out of the warm shop and onto the cold street.  He began the long trek home, his ears ringing with cold, and his chest tightening as he made his way up a steep hill that led to Market Street.

Chandler crossed Market Street, then paused for a short moment, to watch the throngs of wealthy San Franciscans rush down the long street.  He sometimes wondered where all of those people were going, and why they were always in such a hurry.  Even when the wind wasn't biting their noses, they were running to and fro, too busy to notice anything or anyone.

Sighing heavily, he made his way south of Market, and toward the small flat that he shared with his mother, Nora.

As he walked farther south, the streets seemed to darken, and the people lining the streets more desolate and less rushed.  He keyed into his building, a dilapidated tenement in Hunter's Point, and shuffled up the four flights of stairs to the flat.

After his father had died suddenly one year ago, Chandler had dropped out of University to take care of his mother, who was suffering from a severe case of Typhoid Fever.  Now delusional, Nora was hardly able to recognize her own son, something that Chandler tried hard to ignore.

Chandler keyed into the one-room flat, and set down the bread and medicines quietly, but managed to rouse his sleeping mother anyway.

"Who are you?  What do you want?" Nora cried desperately.

"Mom, it's me, Chandler—your son?"

"I don't…I don't have a son."

Chandler sighed, and sat down on the thin, creaky mattress slowly.

"I got your medicines…and Mrs. Tribianni is going to look in on you later tonight.  I'll be at work until tomorrow morning.  If you need anything, Mrs. Tribianni is right across the hall.  Okay?" Chandler stood slowly, and bit his lip nervously.

"There's some bread here if you get hungry…and the water in the pitcher is fresh.  Are you warm enough?  Mom?"

"Where is Clara?  I want to talk to Clara!"

"Mom," Chandler sighed, "Clara is gone, remember?  She died two years ago."

"Leave me alone," Nora mumbled, as she began drifting into unconsciousness.

Chandler nodded silently and pulled another threadbare blanket over his mother, before gathering his gloves and cap, and slipping out the door.

He knocked on the door across the hall, and a moment later, the door swung open.

"Hey Chandler," Joey smiled at his friend and neighbor, "I'm almost ready."

"Great.  Is your mom here?" Chandler looked over Joey's shoulder to see several younger girls—Joey's sisters—running through the small flat, infusing a youthful exuberance throughout the room.  It was a stark contrast to the drab, sick-filled atmosphere that consumed the flat across the hall.

"Yeah," Joey smiled sympathetically, and disappeared into the flat.  Gloria Tribianni appeared moments later.

"Hello, Chandler," Gloria smiled warmly, and pulled the thin young man into a tight hug.

"Hello Mrs. Tribianni," Chandler smiled.

"Please, sweetheart, you know that you can call me Gloria!"

"Yes M'am," Chandler reddened slightly.

"How is Nora tonight?"

"Not well," Chandler sobered, and his eyes fell, "she…may not recognize you."

"She didn't know who you were again?"

"No," Chandler sighed, "and she was asking for my sister again.  But she'll need to take her medicine…and maybe try to eat some bread?"

"I'll take care of it, sweetheart, don't worry," Gloria replied, just as Joey reappeared in the doorway, his cap and gloves in hand.

"We should go," Chandler nodded toward Joey, "Thank you Mrs. Tribianni."

"Wait!" Gloria rushed into the flat, and reappeared with a small, soft-sided sack, "There should be enough stew in there for both of you," Gloria looked at Joey pointedly, "you will need your strength."

"Thank you, Ma," Joey kissed his mother on the cheek, and Chandler waved, as they rushed down the steps and out of the tenement.

Chandler and Joey made their way toward the Embarcadero, both of them trying desperately to ignore the bitter chill that filled the winter night.  They walked down to the docks, and checked in, before heading toward the boat.

They worked through the night and into the early morning, loading and unloading crates at a steady but exhausting rate.  They worked until mid-day, then made their way out of the docks, and back into town.

"I think I need a drink," Joey sighed heavily.

"Yeah," Chandler agreed, "but I should get home."

"Chandler, my mom will look after her.  Come on, you deserve it."

Chandler nodded reluctantly, and followed Joey into a small, nondescript saloon on Taylor Street.

The saloon was dark, and only half-full.  Joey and Chandler took a seat at the long wooden bar, and Joey ordered two whiskeys.

"What are you going to do," Joey ventured slowly, "after your mother…you know."

"After she dies?" Chandler finished wearily, "I don't know.  I guess I'll keep working at the docks.  Maybe save up some money, and move up north."

"What about school?  You said you loved University."

"I…can't afford that anymore," Chandler shook his head, "I can't go back."

"But you're so smart!  You don't belong in the docks with us lunkheads!"

Chandler shrugged, but said nothing.

The two men sat in silence for a long moment, sipping their whiskeys intermittently.

"She doesn't even know me anymore," Chandler suddenly said, his voice hoarse and heavy with grief, "I don't think she'll make it through the winter."

"I'm so sorry, Chandler," Joey sighed.

Chandler downed his drink, and stood up, "I need to go."

Joey nodded, and followed suit.  The men stepped out onto the street, and made their way down to Market in silence.

"Do you want to get a drink?" Joey asked, as he and Chandler left the docks two days later.  They had both worked overtime, and now the sun was descending quickly into the horizon.

"Not tonight, Joe," Chandler smiled tiredly.

"Oh, come on!  I want to see if that waitress is working again tonight.  I think she likes me," Joey grinned.

"You can go without me, can't you?"

"I guess," Joey sighed, disappointed, "where are you going?"

"I think I want to take a walk…I need to clear my head."

"Okay…see you later then?"

"Sure," Chandler smiled, and watched Joey turn and walk up the street.  He sighed heavily, and turned back toward the San Francisco Bay.  White and orange light bounced off of the glassy surface, as the sun began to disappear completely.

Chandler strolled down the Embarcadero, stopping as he reached Pier 3.  He turned and walked down the Pier slowly, taking in the crisp sea air, and the unusual silence that surrounded him.

He was halfway down the Pier when he noticed her.

She was dressed immaculately—clearly a society woman.  Her ebony hair was swept up off of her delicate neck, held in place by a large, ornate clip.  Her porcelain skin glowed in the moonlight, making her appear almost ethereal.

She was staring out at the Bay, and had yet to notice him.  He looked around, wondering what a woman of her beauty and stature was doing down here, all alone.

She sighed heavily, and he pulled himself from his thoughts, and watched as she wiped a small, delicate tear from her cheek.

He longed to talk to her—to ask why she was so sad.  But as he took a small step toward her, he realized that he was filthy—and completely out of her league.  Biting his lip, he slowly, quietly backed away a few steps, then turned and rushed off of the Pier.

Chandler returned to Pier 3 every night, hoping to catch another glimpse of the mysterious woman.  It was the first time since his father's death that he had thought of anything besides his job and his mother's well being.  The feeling was both exhilarating and disconcerting.  For an entire week, Chandler walked to the Pier, but the woman never reappeared.  Then, just as Chandler was ready to give up hope, she reappeared, standing at the end of the Pier once again, a rose in a sea of thorns.  Chandler smiled, and ventured down the Pier, their class division seemingly forgotten for the time being.

She was crying, in real earnest, her tiny frame trembling slightly.  Chandler stood several feet behind her, his heart hurting.  She stepped toward the end of the Pier slightly, and Chandler started, concern for her safety mounting.

"Miss?" he called softly, but she started anyway.

She turned, her eyes wide with fear, her body rigid and unmoving.

"I—I didn't mean to startle you…are you alright?"

"W-what do you want?"

"You were crying…and you are very close to the edge…I just wanted to make sure that you—"

"My welfare is not _your _concern," the woman said harshly, her voice shaking.

"I—I am sorry.  Please, pardon me," Chandler bowed his head quickly, and turned to leave.

"Wait," the woman pleaded, and Chandler stopped, "I—I'm sorry for being so cruel.  Please, forgive my rudeness."

Chandler turned toward her, and was surprised to see that she had approached him slightly.

"What are you doing down here all alone?  This is no place for a lady."

"I knew that…no one would look for me here," she said softly, and looked down at her feet.

"Who…or what, are you hiding from?"

"I—I really should go," the woman said suddenly, and moved past Chandler quickly.

_She smells of lavender…_

"Wait, Miss!"

The woman paused, but refused to turn.

"Please…allow me to walk you back toward Market?"

The woman did not turn, but nodded slightly.  Chandler smiled, and moved to her side, careful to keep two feet of space between them.

"My name is Chandler…Chandler Bing."

She did not reply, and was silent as they made their way off of the Pier and up the Embarcadero.  As they approached Market Street, the woman paused, and turned toward Chandler slowly.

"My name is Monica Geller.  It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bing."

To Be Continued…


	2. Two

_**There Was a Boy**_

_Two_

There was something about sunset on the Bay that calmed him; the soothing sound of the water lapping against the shore, combined with the brilliant display of reds and oranges that lit up the water, and the surrounding sky. In the distance, the Bay opened up to the Pacific Ocean.

He often wondered if he would ever have the opportunity to explore life beyond these waters; he wondered if there was someone like him, on the other side of the world, watching the ocean tides and contemplating the same thoughts.

He sighed. Perhaps he would never leave this city; perhaps his fate was to live and die here. Perhaps he would never see the other side of the Pacific.

He smiled slightly.

Something told him he was wrong; something told him that there were larger things waiting for him.

**&**

Nora was sleeping peacefully when he entered the flat. He shrugged out of his jacket, and checked Nora's temperature with the back of his hand, before walking across the room to the thin mattress that had been shoved into the far corner of the room.

He sat down, and pulled off his boots slowly.

As it often did in the silence of the late night, his mind drifted to the woman he'd met at the pier…Monica. She was stunning—vivacious and intelligent. Like know one he'd ever known.

_She's out of your league_, a warning voice interrupted his thoughts, _she's above you_.

He sighed, and lay down on the mattress, his thoughts drifting to bright azure eyes and soft ebony hair…

He knew he might never see her again. He knew he could only have her in his dreams.

But for a man who had little else; his dreams were enough.

**&**

She found herself constantly comparing Richard Burke, to the boy at the pier.

Richard was older, and so confident and sure of himself. His voice was loud and boisterous, and he spoke only of simple things to her, saving his talk of politics and other educated subjects for her father and brother. He looked at her adoringly, as though she were a prize in the county fair: his to own, his to covet.

The idea of marrying him made her nauseous.

She thought of the boy—Chandler. He was quiet and insecure, but much smarter than he let on. The first few minutes they spoke, Chandler was very formal with her. He seemed almost afraid of her; perhaps it was the way he was raised—she wasn't sure. As the night wore on, he relaxed, but continued to keep a formal distance. He would ask her about her family, about her education, her thoughts on politics and religion.

The way he looked at her cut through her soul. No man would ever look at her that way again; and she would never love anyone the way she loved him. And as the years passed, he would haunt her dreams.

**& **

**March 1906**

The feeling of foreboding had followed him all day.

As he loaded the cargo onto the flats, he couldn't help but to be distracted by the constant, constriction closing in on his chest.

His supervisor, Mr. Lowell, had noticed as well, and called him out on it.

"Bing!" Lowell yelled, and motioned the boy over.

Paul Lowell was a reasonable man, but he ran a very tight operation. He knew that Chandler Bing was a good, hard worker, and had never had issues with him. The boy was always first to volunteer for overtime, and would do any task that was set in front of him.

Because of this, the boy's behavior over the past few days concerned him.

He watched Chandler toss the last of the cargo onto the flat, before jogging toward him.

"Is everything alright Mr. Lowell?" Chandler asked breathlessly.

"I was about to ask you the same thing, son," Lowell arched an eyebrow, "You've been…out of sorts these past few days. If it were anyone else, I'd have their ass, you know?"

Chandler's eyes dropped, and Lowell could see the color drain from the boy's thin face.

"I'm sorry, sir," Chandler replied, "I…I'll work harder."

"Chandler," Lowell said slowly, "you're the hardest worker on this dock."

"It…it's my mother, sir," Chandler said softly, "she's…I'm afraid she's taken a turn for the worse. I—I haven't been getting much sleep, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Lowell said sadly, "Do you think you can finish the day?"

"Yes sir, of course," Chandler answered automatically. Lowell had a feeling the boy's body did not agree.

"Good. Finish out the day, take tomorrow off," Lowell said matter-of-factly.

"Sir, I can—"

"It isn't a request, Bing," Lowell said with mock-sternness.

"Yes, sir," Chandler nodded, though Lowell could see that the boy was still weighed down with worry and exhaustion.

"Don't worry, boy, you'll be paid for the whole week," Lowell added.

Chandler's shoulders relaxed slightly, and Lowell smiled.

"I need you in top shape for the April loads. They're always big ones."

"Yes, sir," Chandler smiled, and jogged back toward the docks.

**&**

"I think this place is _perfect_," Richard said, as he wrapped his arm around Monica possessively. The pair, along with Monica's parents, had traveled out to Golden Gate Park, to scout out a location for the wedding.

"Who would have thought you could do all of _this _with sand dunes!" Jack exclaimed, referring to the sprawling grass and abundant foliage that now occupied the former sand trap.

"It is quite impressive," Richard said, "John McLaren is a good friend of our family," he gloated, "he'll ensure full access to any part of the Park we wish to use."

Monica eyed Richard warily as he spoke; the man was connected to every famous and important man in the city, and he had absolutely no trouble letting everyone know that.

She sighed. Honestly, she didn't care if Richard knew God Himself; she could not imagine having to listen to this man for the rest of her life.

"What do you think, Monica?" Jack placed his hand on his daughter's shoulder to gain her attention.

"She loves it," Judy exclaimed, as Monica opened her mouth to reply, "I mean, who _wouldn't_?"

**& **

Market Street was nearly deserted—an unusual sight to be sure. Sunday was generally the quietest day of the week, as most families attended church, then headed straight home. This time of day, late afternoon, found little activity around what was the city's main thoroughfare. Golden rays of the setting sun illuminated the gothic structures that lined the streets, and the passing of a carriage only occasionally broke through the peacefulness.

Monica had managed to convince her parents that she was feeling ill, and had excused herself to her bedroom for the night. She waited about an hour before slipping out of the house, relying on the fact that her father often fell asleep in the afternoon, and her mother was just too self-involved to notice.

She smiled as she passed the various storefronts, eyeing the window displays and enjoying the serenity. She nearly fell over the boy that had planted himself on the edge of the walkway.

"Oh!" she cried, as she struggled to keep her balance.

The young man bolted up, clearly shocked by her sudden appearance. He grabbed her arm, steadying her on her feet.

"I'm so sorry, M'am," the boy said quickly, pulling his dingy brown hat from his head.

"It's fine," Monica smiled, looking up for the first time.

"Chandler, isn't it?" her smile widened.

His cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red.

"Y-yes. I apologize, Miss Geller, I—"

"Please," Monica shook her head, "call me Monica."

**& **

"Monica," Chandler whispered, then flushed again. He looked down at his shoes, and fiddled with the hat in his hands.

"You're dressed very nicely," Monica observed, taking in the deep brown suit and vest, "Did you just come from church?"

Chandler looked down at his dingy suit and scuffed shoes, and felt embarrassment course through him. She thought he looked _nice_? A woman like her must surely be more accustomed to…he shook his head. She was just being polite.

"No, Miss…Monica—I mean, yes, but—"

"You were either in church, or you weren't, Chandler," Monica giggled.

He flushed again.

"I was…in church, I—" Chandler sighed and studied his hat intently, "It was a funeral," he finished quietly.

"Oh," Monica sobered, and placed a hand on his shoulder, "I-I'm sorry."

Chandler looked up, smiling sadly.

"It's okay…she…my mother...she was sick for a really long time." He took her hand, and squeezed it gently.

She smiled warmly.

Neither heard the carriage approach.

"You! Boy! Get away from her!" Richard's booming voice filled the air with a dark current of electricity.

Chandler pulled away quickly, taking two long steps away from Monica, as if by instinct.

Furious, Monica whipped around to glare at Richard.

"What are you doing?" she seethed.

But Richard appeared to be ignorant to her fury.

"Are you alright, my dear? Did he hurt you?"

"Hurt me? Richard, we were simply _talking_," Monica yelled, her eyes alight with ire.

"No matter," Richard said haughtily, "get into the carriage, I'll take you back to your parent's."

"No!" Monica shook her head.

"Monica, sweetheart," Richard said with irritating calmness, "this is no place for a lady to be wandering alone."

Monica knew she had no choice. As much as she wanted to stay and speak with Chandler, she knew that defying Richard now would only create consequences later. Sighing angrily, she allowed Richard to pull her into the carriage.

**&**

Richard made sure that Monica was fully situated before turning his attention to the boy. To his surprise, the boy had remained in the same spot, his head lowered, his hat in hand. Richard felt a surge of jealously course through him.

He had never seen Monica smile at _him_, the way she had smiled at this_ boy_.

"Boy," he yelled, and smiled as the boy jumped and moved toward the carriage. He handed a folded twenty to the boy, but as he reached for it, Richard snared his wrist and pulled the boy toward him.

"This is for your trouble," he said with mock-friendliness. In a darker, hushed tone, he continued, "If you go near her again, I'll have you hanged."

Smiling, Richard released the boy's wrist, and signaled the horseman to move along.

The boy stepped back hastily, as the carriage lurched forward, leaving a large cloud of dust in its wake.

**_& _**

_**AN: Oh my holy crap. Not sure why I am posting this, as who knows when I'll get around to finishing it. I'm hoping I can actually wrap it up in a chapter or two, but…well, first I have to write it. This chapter has been sitting, half-finished, in my computer for months. Feel free to review. I know it stinks, but gimme a break—I'm rusty.**_


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